


Phone calls and memories (1/2)

by In_Arcadia_IO



Series: Phone calls and memories [1]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: LOTR RPF - Freeform, LoTR RPS - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 18:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3620403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Arcadia_IO/pseuds/In_Arcadia_IO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Why do things like this happen, Viggo? We were so sure."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phone calls and memories (1/2)

The coffee is hot and strong and sweet. Yet it tastes stale to him. Just like the churros, sugar-powered and still warm. Orlando would have loved these fritters. He would have ordered chocolate instead of coffee.

It's still dark outside. Through the huge windows he watches the people rush by, back home after a night of dancing, or heading for work already. Hazy figures, dots of green and pink and grey, hurrying across the street, ducking under umbrellas or holding on to scarves and collars, their heads lowered to avoid the drizzle.

Like fish in an aquarium, he thinks, though he's the one sitting en la percera, in the fishbowl, under the bright lights, on a burgundy red leather bench. There are hardly any people around at this hour. Music's playing somewhere in the background; it mingles with the fizzle and sizzle of the coffee machine and random snippets of conversation coming from other tables. He knows the tune. Chet Baker. Comes as no surprise that they're playing it today.

It's as if he's dreaming all this. It's only a dream that he's sitting in this bar, drinking coffee with the sounds of a melancholy trumpet slowly drifting over to his table. Any minute he will wake up, in another country, as another person.

He often feels like this these days.

Not quite awake.

"Viggo, donde estas? Where are you with your thoughts?" Jesús will chide him then, frowning. "Mind your steps."

Viggo's thankful for the fencing lessons which has nothing to do with fucking method acting. When concentrating on how to hold the foil, on his footwork, on parées and counter-parées, he forgets who he is. Forgets about everything else, too.

Alatriste - seems he can't get rid of the tristesse residing in that name.

He glances over to the statue of San Sebastian that's set on a pedestal in the center of the café, suffering so picturesquely, with eyes heavenward bound, hipbones protruding almost obscenely.

Viggo almost chokes on the sweet pastry when, like in a flash, he remembers how Orlando's hipbones felt under his hands, skin just as smooth as that of the statue over there.

The statue is still, of course, as statues tend to be, doesn't notice that someone has put a red heart sticker on its wooden cheek, and the waitress winks at Viggo when she catches his glance.

Orlando, however, had been moving, squirming under him, calling his name when Viggo had lowered himself into him, sweethotlongslow glide. Orlando's eyelids had been half-closed just as seductively.

He wishes he would only remember this. Wet grey days like this, with rain dripping on the trailer roof, when it had been only the two of them. And nothing else had mattered.

He wishes he would forget that last time they fucked, it can't be called any other way. Hasty, indifferent touches, their minds already set on various flight schedules. It felt as if two different bodies were having sex.

It felt all wrong.

At that time their telephone conversations had become less frequent already and when they talked the pauses between sentences sometimes stretched awkwardly. And then there had been Kate.

"She's easy to be around." Orlando had felt obliged to explain one day though Viggo had never asked.

"You don't owe me any explanations," Viggo had replied, wondering when Orlando had given up wanting less than the sun, the moon, the stars and everything. "We both knew that it couldn't always be like it was, back in New Zealand."

At that moment, Orlando, for the first time that night, had really looked at him; suddenly the boy with those huge, curious eyes again, with a narrow face and a serious mouth, the boy of whom he saw less and less in all of those shots of red carpets and glorious premieres.

"Why do things like this happen, Viggo? We were so sure."

Viggo stirs his coffee and looks out on the street where the sun slowly rises, chasing away the clouds. Yeah, why do things like this happen? Is love nothing more than a lucky coincidence? The right time, the right place. And what happens when neither the place nor the time are right anymore? Love is like the rain, appears out of the blue and is gone just as quickly.

Outside the people have folded their umbrellas and it's getting brighter each minute. Suddenly, a young man walks by the café. At first, Viggo only sees the tall, slender frame, a sharp profile and lots of dark curls.

Instantly, Viggo's heart starts beating madly and then just stops. For in that very second the young man looks back into the café, directly into Viggo's eyes. The same high cheekbones as Orlando, the same way to slightly cock his head. But it is not Orlando; miracles don't happen just like this, not even on Valentine's day. It's only a young man, a man like so many others in the streets of Madrid. Anybody.

And the smile dies on Viggo's lips.

**Author's Note:**

> My funny Valentine  
> Sweet comic Valentine  
> You make me smile with my heart  
> Your looks are laughable  
> Unphotographable,  
> Yet you're my favorite work of art.
> 
> Lyrics by Rodgers & Hart


End file.
